


What Was and What Will Be

by bloodsongs



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Dubious Consent, M/M, Templar!Arthur, references to non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As tension brews in Kirkwall, a lone mage named Merlin flees the pursuit of The Order, but it’s only a matter of time before the dangerous Knight-Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon catches up with him.</p><p>Merlin remembers the templar; brash and golden and beautiful, with an endearing crooked smile and an unexpected kindness to him that you never saw people showing to mages. Not in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was and What Will Be

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC and Dragon Age II characters are the property of Bioware. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

Merlin remembers the templar; brash and golden and beautiful, with an endearing crooked smile and an unexpected kindness to him that you never saw people showing to mages. Not in Kirkwall. 

He’d helped Merlin twice when he’d tripped, carrying something or other, shaking his head and awkwardly telling him to be careful, not catching Merlin’s eyes with a hint of a blush to his cheeks. Merlin had thought that was cute at the time, and that’d successfully suppressed the twinge of pain and disappointment that inevitably came whenever the templars refused to look at him or treat him like a person because that was all mages were to the Order: unnatural, powerful monsters that had to be leashed, silenced and controlled.

Corralled, almost. Like cattle.

He’d thought Arthur was different.

So of course, because the Maker has a twisted sense of humour, Knight-Commander Meredith had actually sent Knight-Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon after him. Of course. There was nothing cute or awkward about him now that he was on the hunt; clad in his full armour, swinging his sword with purpose as he looked about for Merlin, Arthur was a dangerous, focused hunter and Merlin his prey.

Arthur’s blue eyes had born into him like gimlets as he commanded his knights to attack when Merlin had led the others to fight back, and he had truly been a sight to behold; terrifying as he struck down mage after mage after mage, utterly unstoppable.

He’d taken down the rest of Arthur’s party with Freya and a couple of others from the Circle, before one of the templars had driven a sword through her heart when she was casting. They killed the other mages, draining their mana and magic, leaving them powerless as they beheaded them. Heart thudding in fear, Merlin had escaped him at the last moment and eventually fled the city, taking refuge in caves along the Wounded Coast; he’s just thankful now that the memories of the winding paths from his barely remembered childhood didn’t fail him.

Kirkwall has had a drought for weeks, so it surprises Merlin when rain starts falling. The sky clouds over, churning in restless gray colours.

Andraste weeping for the lives lost in days past and for the mages and templars that fell today? Merlin sighs, blinking the droplets off his eyelids. For all the lives that would continue to be lost in vain as long as Meredith held her blood-iron control of the city?

He feels an unbidden loathing for the Champion rise at the back of his throat, like bile. An apostate mage, herself, and yet Marian Hawke turns a blind eye to the suffering of her kin, or her sister, Bethany. Oh, she protested, on the surface, with such pretty words. But what good are words when they won’t protect you like your magic, when they are flimsier than any armour, more easily broken and crumbled than a twig under an oppressor’s heel?

Closing his eyes, curling tightly into himself behind a small hill, hoping the leaves and rocks will hide him for a while as the hard ground bites into the skin of his back through his thin robes,  Merlin has never wished to be free of magic more.

“Apostate.”

Especially at this very moment.

Looking up from where he’s seated, chin resting on his knees, Merlin can see Arthur walking towards him from the jagged edge of the river. 

“Knight-Lieutenant,” he says, a little resigned. That sure didn’t take long. Maybe his image of Arthur as some kind of predator sniffing out his trail wasn’t too far from the truth. 

And to think they’d gone through all that trouble to destroy their phylacteries for nothing.

Arthur shakes his head and stops a fair distance away from him, and Merlin notes how he doesn’t go for his sword. “You’re the only survivor.”

He’d always thought templars were unshakeable, resolute in their faith, that when they were on the chase they were focused on one thing and one thing only: the total annihilation of the mages they pursued. But Arthur won’t look at him in the eye, won’t move towards him; he’s just standing there, as if waiting for something.

“That I am.” Merlin thrusts his staff down into the grass beside him, uses it as support to get to his feet. Arthur doesn’t so much as flinch. It’s as though he knows Merlin’s not going to attack him. Not yet, anyway.

Arthur exhales loudly. There is absolute _control_ in every line of his body, the way his relaxed stance screams how he could strike Merlin down in an instant should he choose to. “Why did you run?”

“Why are you even engaging me in pointless conversation?” Merlin gestures down the path Arthur came from. One wrong move, one misstep and faltered spell, and Merlin could be cut down where he stood. He probably wouldn’t even had time to blink. “You certainly didn’t want to talk to my friends when you and your men thrust your swords through their chests, ending their too-short, miserable lives. They’re probably happier now in the embrace of the Maker.”

“Answer me,” Arthur insists, ignoring him, but the way he bites his lip is probably as good an indication as any that Merlin’s subtle goading had gotten to him.

“Fine. Why does any mage run from the Kirkwall circle?”

“Don’t turn the questions against me, Merlin.”

Merlin blinks, surprised, and steps back. “You know my name?”

And now Arthur’s the one who looks confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’d always assumed templars had no great need to remember the names of their caged beasts. After we’re stripped of power and dignity,” Merlin says, and knows it for the most part to be true. The things some of the more sadistic and cruel templars had made the mages do in the darkened paths of the Gallows would make Andraste weep.

The Swords of the Maker, debasing and abusing His other children. Merlin sometimes wonders what the Order really stands for and just how much the Chantry knows. Perhaps the most painful and damning thing about the templars’ treatment of the mages is not that it actually happened, but that it was allowed, even encouraged.

_Meredith will pay, one day._

The expression on Arthur’s face is something to behold: all twisted lines and anguish when Merlin’s words sink in. “We’re not all like that.”

“Aren’t you?” Merlin asks warily, eyes still trained on Arthur’s hands. They’re restless, fidgety.   “Are you branding me a liar?”

“Some of them are ruthless and completely without mercy. Some are driven to indulge petty, cruel whims by mistreating the mages in their care. We root them out when we can, and have apprehended no small amount of templars who’ve been caught misusing their powers on more than one occasion,” Arthur says stiffly, as if reading from a paper. He sounds like he’s been giving it some thought. 

Merlin laughs, mirthlessly. “One, two corrupted templars out of a sea of abusers? Please, ser. Because _that_ smacks of effort.”

“Merlin,” Arthur tries, and stops. This is an entirely different man from the ruthless slayer he'd confronted just hours ago, and it's disorientating. Merlin doesn't understand. “Look, I’ve seen you in the Circle. You’re not the sort... I’ve heard you speaking up against blood magic. If there were templars who’d wronged you, who’d pushed you and your friends to the brink of escape, tell me and let me help you. Come back with me and I’ll defend you, say that you were merely an accessory–”

“Ser Pendragon,” Merlin snaps. “I was one of the ringleaders of the escape effort, and you know it.”

“I asked you earlier why you ran.” Arthur turns around and looks upwards. The rain clings to his dark golden hair and paints him in a vulnerable light. “Was it truly that bad, with us? Maker knows we tried, we did our fucking best – we’ve seen the things we caught them doing. There were times we found mages who’d taken their own lives rather than suffer through the horrors, and...”

Merlin stays silent as Arthur paces.

“We just couldn’t, we couldn’t bring it to the light. Ser Thrask and the others tried to help. I might not have assisted mages to escape, but that didn’t mean I condoned what was happening. What kind of demons do you take us for?”

"You didn't con–" Merlin begins incredulously, anger bubbling in him. "You still killed them. My friends."

"You _ran_ from the Circle and fought back when my templars gave chase!"

"Because you would've killed us." A beat. "And you did. They're all dead. Except for me."

"I had to." Arthur looks away from Merlin. "It's my duty. I've seen to the punishment and exile of many corrupted templars myself, I... I am against injustice, but there is only so much I am allowed to do, do you understand? And there is much that I cannot escape from."

“Look, I’m aware you’re not actually a Kirkwaller and you’ve only been here a while, but it has never been enough. Especially not in recent times.” Merlin runs a hand through his hair. “They speak of us being powerful enough to raze a city to the ground, to destroy the whole of Thedas should we be allowed to run free. But all that power counts for nothing when you templars lock our magic, snatch it away from us while we scream. Beg. Agree to every single filthy and abominable demand with the threat of being made Tranquil being held over our heads.” 

He lights a small magical flame in the palm of his hand, sees how it chases the shadows away from his skin as the rain fails to douse it. “Even a mage, for all his power, cannot do anything when overwhelmed with the odds of twenty templars to one.”

“What do you want me to say?” Arthur asks quietly, clenching his fists. “You’ve made up your mind about the templars. About me.”

“The same way you have all made up your minds about us. Just like how you’re going to kill me anyway, even with all this small talk.” That was what templars did. All those lives lost to the Order, for want of trust and hope that someone, anyone, would see the light, would see the insanity they were putting mages through. You don’t trust templars, lest you end up dead.

You just don’t.

 “No!” Arthur jerks as if burned. “I wouldn’t – not if you didn’t force my hand.”

“Oh?” Merlin steps closer. “I am forcing your hand by simply existing. This is a pathetic stalemate and you know it. Kill me, or let me leave. We’ll get nothing done by hanging around here.”  He lets his magic pool in his palm. “I’ll even help you.”

With a tight grip on his staff and a sweeping motion of his other hand, Merlin hurls a crackling bolt of lightning Arthur’s way. It misses him, but only just. Merlin can _hear_ the dark rhythm of the lyrium responding to his magic in Arthur’s veins when he's slammed face-first against a tall rock, the cool metal of Arthur's gauntlet biting into Merlin’s neck as he squeezes.

“Fuck,” Merlin gasps, seeing stars. His staff falls from his hand, clattering to the ground with a dull thud, and then Arthur’s got his arms locked behind his back as he leans in and says fiercely, “Don’t _force_ me,” at the same time Merlin begs, “Please—”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Arthur says, his voice loud and close to Merlin’s ear like that. “I didn’t want to kill the others, I... you shouldn’t have run away.”

“I had to.” Flashes of templars forcing him to his knees in an empty room and the phantom memory of hot, unwanted hands sliding under his robes make him close his eyes and bite down on his lip. Of the way they burned when Merlin’s desperation and fury killed them where they stood. “That was no way to live. I’d rather die.”

“What did they do to you?” It’s almost a whisper, soft against his skin. Merlin shudders a little, despite himself, because... because it’s Arthur, the one templar he’d thought wasn’t like the others, the one templar who was kind. Arthur, who’s pressed up against him now, a long line of heat and muscle on his back, and _Maker_ , if he only knew how much Merlin had hoped— had wondered if they could—

He swallows, willing away that line of thought and the other terrible memories. “It’s nothing now. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Discomfited, Arthur’s grip on him eases. “I... all right,” he says, hesitantly, not quite stepping back. Merlin coughs, taking in deep lungfuls of air, his fingers flying to his neck. It feels tender; it’ll probably bruise.

Arthur curses, and brushes his knuckles against the pink welts there. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”

Merlin flinches back from Arthur, who freezes as if reaching out for a wounded animal with its fangs bared. That's not too far from the truth. 

The air hangs heavy between them for a thick heartbeat of a moment, until Merlin nods almost imperceptibly and leans back into Arthur's touch. It’s not like he didn’t expect it, with how he antagonised Arthur. The hand that strokes circles into the back of his neck now is gentle even through the steel, and it's almost too much to bear, being touched like this after such a harrowing escape. Especially coming from someone who is going to all but execute him. Merlin wants to weep.  “Forget it. Ser.”

They stay there like that awhile, with Arthur’s hand on his back and Merlin resting his forehead against the coarse surface of the rock. It’s quiet but for Merlin’s struggling to breathe and Arthur’s sharp, controlled exhales, soft sounds against the louder crashes of waves against the coast.

“I can’t let you escape, Merlin,” Arthur voices what they've both been thinking, wrecked. “They would — they would find you anyway, and I’m not sure they would give you so quick or straightforward death as I would. Just let me...”

“Let you kill me.” Merlin finishes for him hollowly. “Like a dog bending to the will of a greater beast, rolling over for him to tear out my throat. Why are you even asking my permission?”

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Ah, but it’s true.” It also makes Merlin think. Arthur _had_ paid more attention to Merlin than his other peers in the Gallows, and had always looked at him a bit too intently before looking away when he got caught. There had certainly been no need for permission when Arthur and his other templars killed his companions, hunters disposing of defiant prey. And yet, Arthur is stalling; acknowledging him, _asking_ him. 

Almost as if he wants to be convinced.

_He wants me,_ Merlin realises, sees it even more clearly now. Does he even know what it means, for someone in his position to desire a mage? Somehow, Arthur’s still different. He’s not overtly doing anything, not forcing himself on Merlin — and he’s such, such a _boy_ in some ways, he’s probably not even aware he’s... the epiphany has Merlin falling to his knees before Arthur, wincing minutely at the sand that bites into the cotton of his robes before nudging Arthur back so he’s the one against the rock now.

Merlin left his pride and dignity behind a long time ago in the name of survival.

“What—” Arthur’s voice sounds strangled, but he makes no move to subdue Merlin. “What are you doing?”

_Giving you what you're too ashamed to ask. Giving you what you desire that you won't vocalise. It may just save me._ “Pleading for my life,” Merlin says instead, pushing Arthur’s knees apart and dancing his fingers up Arthur’s thighs, trying not to look at the templars’ insignia on Arthur’s armour because of the way it makes bile rise to his throat. 

It’s ten thousand sorts of wrong and it shames him deeply to harbour this kind of lust towards his jailers, but Merlin’s always wondered outside of the cruelty of the templars what it would’ve been like to take one of them apart with his mouth. Truly, on his own free will and not at sword point while he did his ‘duty to the Order’, as some of the meaner ones liked to call it. 

He imagined it at night when the others were sleeping, biting down on his fist as he thought guiltily of Arthur, gallant and proper but begging above him while Merlin swallowed him down. He’s dreamed of those lips parting for his kisses, those hands over him, touching him. But not like this. Fate has never seemed so cruel a mistress until today.

Something clinks to the floor, and Merlin sees out of the corner of his eye that it’s one of Arthur’s gauntlets. “You don’t have to do this,” Arthur says, breath hitching. The gloved fingers that card through Merlin’s hair tell a different story: twisting, they lend a side of pain to the soothing and hypnotic feeling, heat seeping through the thin leather like a whisper over his skin. Merlin worries his bottom lip as he shakily undoes Arthur’s red cummerbund, tugging his trousers down under the cloth. 

“Maybe I want to,” Merlin says, the taste of the half-lie bitter and strange on his tongue.

“Maker,” Arthur breathes, when Merlin tugs the cloth down and exposes his cock, tightening his grip on Merlin’s hair. “I’ve never...”

“You templars are a repressed lot.” Nuzzling at it, Merlin mouths along the base, and smiles weakly when Arthur’s cock jerks at his touch. This, he knows — the mages had a _lot_ of fun in their dormitories when they weren’t worrying about being made Tranquil against their will, escaping the more brutal of the templars or agonising over their magical studies. And this had saved him more than once. As long as he gave them what they wanted, as long as he was good, they wouldn’t take his magic away.

“I thought about it,” Arthur admits, trembling when Merlin plays with his balls, rolling them between his fingers. “It’s wrong, but I couldn’t help... I’d dream of it. Hate myself afterwards.”

“Of this?” Merlin says softly, curious despite himself, licking at Arthur’s slit. It’s really just a blow job in a bargain for his escape, but he can’t bring himself to reduce Arthur to just a templar he has to appease. He’s as vulnerable to Merlin now as Merlin is to him, somehow, laid bare like this with his troubled conscience and agitation in his eyes. “Or more?”

“More.” He’s such a warrior, even now with his arm braced against the tree for balance and his hand tugging almost painfully at the hairs on Merlin’s neck, carefully keeping from bucking too much into Merlin’s mouth. “I thought about, about sucking. Bending someone over and tasting them, and...”

“Fucking them?” Merlin suggests. His lips drawn into a thin line, Arthur’s hold on his neck falters as he flushes, and he turns away, embarrassed. “You can say it, you know.”

“It’s improper.” And isn’t _that_ a laugh, with his cock so far down Merlin’s throat and the sounds spilling from his mouth when Merlin strokes him slowly with hands and tongue. “The first time I saw you—” Arthur clamps his mouth shut.

“What?” Drawing off, Merlin looks up at him incredulously.

“Nothing,” Arthur says, too quickly.

Oh. Isn’t that interesting. “You saw me, and...” He prompts Arthur, pumping him and looking up at him from beneath his lashes in the way that leaves his lovers wild and wanting. “Did you think of this?” Slide of tongue on the side, tracing a vein, and a hint of teeth that makes Arthur start and jerk against his mouth. Merlin’s meticulous; he flicks his tongue out, catching every last drop of slick. “You having me against a wall, next to a window overlooking the courtyard? Where anyone could see us?”

A strong tug at his arm, and then Merlin’s losing his balance for a breathless moment before he’s shoved up against the rock, Arthur’s considerable bulk pressing into him as his mouth closes over Merlin’s, sweet and hot. The drag of leather against the back of his neck sends shivers up his spine, and then Arthur pulls his hair back to kiss down his jaw.

“You deserve more than that,” he says into Merlin’s skin, his fringe tickling and teasing below Merlin’s ear. “You’re...” Taking a deep breath, he cradles Merlin’s face almost tenderly in his hands, leans in close so their foreheads are touching and the space between their breaths is but a sliver of light. “Not like the others. If things were different—”

_If only,_ Merlin thinks.

“—I would’ve,” Arthur stops, as if frustrated, and huffs a breath against Merlin’s lips. “Asked you to go to the Hightown festivals with me. Bought you a drink, and then...”

“Court me, like some girl?” Merlin asks, teasing, but his heart aches at the possibilities they never had. “I hope you weren’t thinking of The Hanged Man for that pint.”

The awkward silence that descends upon them after that as Arthur brushes Merlin’s cheek with his knuckles is answer enough. “You were actually thinking of taking someone you fancied to _The Hanged Man—”_ It’s not like Merlin’s been out of the Gallows much since the Order had come for him as a child, but he’s heard enough about the cheap rat-flavoured excuse that passes for rum in that place. 

“Only at first,” Arthur protests, and presses a kiss to the edge of Merlin’s mouth, turning away when Merlin chases it. “And... they have nice rooms, there. If you’d have done me the honour, Merlin, I would’ve laid you out right there on one of those beds, just learning about what you liked for hours. Mapping you. I’d wanted to, from the first time I saw you.”

Who even says things like that, anyway? Merlin nuzzles at Arthur’s palm, and parts his lips when Arthur slides his fingers inside, licking at them. He keeps his eyes on Arthur, who looks at him doing that with both awe and a brand of shocked, aroused disbelief. “I see some templars have vices, too.”

When he shakes his head, the gold of Arthur’s hair catches the light just so. “We spoke of unbreakable vows. I’d never thought of straying from them.” He draws his thumb over Merlin’s bottom lip, pressing against him. The armour is heavy, but Merlin can feel how hot Arthur is through his tunic, under the clink of mail. “But you... if I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought I’d been bespelled.”

“You were nice,” Merlin says, curling his fingers in Arthur’s hair, rocking back up against Arthur. It doesn’t feel like a farce anymore. If he forgets where they are and how they came to this, he can just pretend they’re just two men of no consequence and no names in a place where the crusade against magic doesn’t exist and the screams of slaughtered mages are but a distant dream. “And so beautiful for a templar.”

Arthur blushes, looking away. “That’s–”

At least it’s Arthur. He kisses him, closing his eyes and shutting out everything else. It shouldn’t have been, but at least it’s Arthur. It’s cruel that it had to be him in the end, who might put the sword through Merlin after all this, but better Arthur who would have mercy, who would be kind. And if Merlin played his cards right, he could get out of this alive.

This is the only way he’d ever have him, anyway. His selfishness and guilt burn and war inside him as he licks into Arthur’s mouth and swallows his moans. His friends are all dead, and here Merlin is, playing the wanton with a templar. It’s almost like an insult to their too-recent painful memory. He shoves aside his conscience for now when Arthur kisses back, inexperienced but keen, his palms are a brand on Merlin’s thighs. Merlin _wants,_ a little terrified at how his vivid fantasies of being with Arthur are coming to life before his very eyes _._

“What do you want, Ser?” Merlin murmurs the question into Arthur’s ear, drawing his teeth over the shell to make him shiver. The power is intoxicating, just as he imagined. Here like this, his eyes wild and mouth parted for Merlin, Arthur really is just another man. “Do you want to touch me? Fuck me?”

“Maker, anything.” The cool shock of leather on his bare thighs makes his breath catch, and then Arthur’s pushing his robes up, up, up and touching him right there, his fingers hot through his gloves and on Merlin’s dick. “You’re perfect,” he breathes against Merlin’s collarbone where his robe’s nearly slipped off one shoulder, “so fucking—”

Gently, he guides Arthur’s hand downwards, sliding around his balls to brush the skin there. “Here, just...” It’s almost endearing how nervous Arthur is, how reluctant, but Merlin’s got no time for that right now. He’d never imagined he’d be getting any on the run, Merlin thinks somewhat hysterically, fishing out a small glass case of salve for wounds he’d kept in his robes with some poultices just in case and pressing it into Arthur’s hands.

 “Get your fingers wet,” Merlin says shakily, because Arthur’s taking his time, biting down on Merlin’s neck and just circling his hole without actually fingering him, “Then touch me. Work me open.”

It takes a few tries for Arthur to fumble the case open, but then his gloved fingers are coated and slippery and nudging Merlin open. “Oh,” Arthur says with a small voice, almost worried. “Am I— are you all right? Am I hurting you?”

Honestly, it’s been a while, but Merlin shakes his head so that Arthur can feel it, exhales and grips tighter at Arthur’s shoulders. “I can take it.”

“Can you, though?” Arthur’s lips curve into a smile against his skin, teasing, but then he slips a finger in and all his bravado stutters to a halt when Merlin groans. He makes as if to pull out, but Merlin parts his legs further and pushes him in, his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. 

"I'm fine. You can be rough with me, if you want."

"If you're sure," Arthur begins, and Merlin bites his ear to show him what he thinks of all this dallying. "All right, I... tell me if I should. Um. If you need me to slow down, or..."

Stroking Arthur's cock, Merlin laughs and throws his head back. "You're doing fine so far, you blushing maid," he says, and hooks a leg around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer so his cockhead just brushes his hole, obscene and wet. He's just so far gone now, high on the adrenaline of his escape, Arthur's careful kisses and the broad hands tracing wide paths down his back.

"M'not," Arthur mutters indignantly, "a maid." 

"I can take another finger. Another," Merlin says, teeth pulling at Arthur's bottom lip and his fingers curling into the front of Arthur's tunic when Arthur complies. "Yeah, just crook them, stretch me inside."

"How are you so—" Helpless but emboldened, Arthur works three fingers back in, and Merlin squirms at the sensation of those gloved fingers inside him. It makes him feel raw, used, in all the best ways. "Can I?"

"Yeah," Merlin says breathlessly. "Yeah. I'm ready."

With his sweat-matted hair tickling Merlin's cheek, Arthur pushes in slowly, fingers gentling at the narrow dip of Merlin's hips as if to calm him. Merlin can't help the sigh of pleasure that escapes him, clutching at the edges of Arthur's damp tunic for balance. 

"Merlin?" 

"Keep going." The burn is sweet, and he misses it. Arthur's prick isn't long, but he's wide; when he fucks himself down on Arthur to take more of him inside, the stretch of it is a hazy blend of pain and pleasure. His erection flags a little at that but then Arthur, who's really proving to be quite the quick study at this, takes him in hand and strips him in unsteady strokes that render him unable to think. "Mmm, that's good. You feel so good."

There's a sweeping sound when Arthur spreads a palm wide next to Merlin's head or support, the other gripping at his arse to hold him in place. "Yeah?" Arthur manages, sliding in and thrusting shallowly, biting his lip as if it's too much for him. "I'm not going to last long, if I... you're so _tight._ Is it always like – _oh_ – like this?"

“Sometimes.” Merlin hums, rocking down on Arthur, bucking against him just to get a reaction out of him. When Arthur whimpers, Merlin rubs a thumb over his lip. "Hey. Shhh. It's your first time, it's okay."

"But—" Arthur pants, fingers slippery over Merlin's cock. Poor thing, he's probably never wanked much at all if he's so unsure of what to do with it, but it just makes Merlin feel a fiercer kind of affection for him, almost possessive. Proud, even, for his deflowering a templar. "I want to make you feel good."

"And you are." He's not even lying. All sorts of men and women have lain with him; the inexperienced (who wanted him to show them his wily, filthy ways), the depraved (who wanted to show _him_ their wily, filthy ways) and even those who made fucking an art form, working Merlin to the edge and back and making him beg and sob for release. Skills are one thing, but Arthur's so painfully eager and determined and _honest_ about wanting him, it floors him. It's been a long time since anyone's made Merlin feel so raw and exposed, and it's liberating. 

"Don't think too much," Merlin says. "Just fuck me, please. Ser."

"You make my title sound obscene." His robes are pushed up further over his bony knees and thighs as Arthur shifts to slide in a little deeper inside him, and then he's driving his fingers hard into Merlin's sides. Merlin likes that.

Clutching at Arthur's shoulders for support, he leans forward to murmur in Arthur's ear. "Ser," he whispers again, just to feel Arthur shiver. "Knight-Lieutenant. Ser Pendragon."

"Tease." A tug at the fine hairs on his nape, like a reprimand. "Say my name, Merlin."

"Arthur." 

Arthur pumps up into him, and every stuttering thrust presses Merlin’s cock hard between them, the friction making Merlin gasp. “Wanted to hear you say that,” Arthur says, “for so long.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, when Arthur licks at his gloved palm and fists his cock, frantic now with his rhythm, faster now so that Merlin’s dizzy with it — the feeling of Arthur inside him and around him and that perfect mouth on his neck. “Arthur, yes, _Arthur._ ”

He yanks at Arthur’s hair when he comes, drawing a shocked groan from him as he spills between them both, white flashing behind his eyelids as he arches back. When Arthur follows after, it’s with a quiet murmur of Merlin’s name before he stills, Merlin clenching around him and dragging him over with him across the edge.

Arthur’s entire body stiffens against him before he steps away, breathing hard, wild eyes locked on Merlin’s as he covers his mouth with his hand, looking like the blood’s drained from his face. 

“Ser,” Merlin tries, Arthur’s expression jolting him back down from his high, because he’s so _stricken._ “Arthur, it’s—”

“No, I shouldn’t have!” Arthur shouts suddenly, swinging his fist back against the rock with a clang of metal that makes Merlin wince. He buries his face in one palm, fingers parted slightly around one eye, fingers almost digging into his skin. “Maker,” he chokes out with a sob, leaning against the rock now. “Merlin, I.. I took advantage of you, a mage that I was supposed to— I am no better than _those men I condemned_.”

“Listen to me.” He pushes Arthur back against the rock now, cupping his face as he looks right at him. “Arthur, listen—” When Arthur tries to turn away, Merlin keeps his fingers firmly there just around his jaw, locks Arthur’s limbs in place with a flash of his magic. 

Thrashing against his invisible bonds that are both heavier and more solid than chains could ever hope to be, Arthur grunts and tries pulling free, but to no avail. “What are you doing?!”

“Just fucking listen!” Merlin snaps, heart thudding in his ears. Now that he has Arthur where he wants him, he’s certain that if he were to leave now and _run_ with those pressurised magical shackles still sealing Arthur there, a life beyond Kirkwall would no longer be a dream. But something stops him. “I only wanted to persuade you, at first. To — to let me go. But I wanted it. I wanted you. And you wanted me, Arthur, I know you did.”

“I...” Arthur turns away, jaw tight and trembling. “Yes. Yes, damn you, I always have. But I shouldn’t have given into the temptation, Merlin, I shouldn’t. My desire and pity stayed my hand. Even if I couldn’t bring myself to kill you, it was wrong for me to lie with you, when you—”

“Because I’m a mage?” He drives his staff down into the ground with more force than necessary, getting sand over their feet. “Corrupted yourself by being with someone of my ilk? Yes? Because all mages have demons within them, don’t we?”

“Merlin,” Arthur begins, gritting his teeth.

The hope that’s flickered in his heart slowly fades as Merlin steps back, taking the full brunt of Arthur’s words in. “You know what I heard a templar say of us, once?” Merlin says softly, stroking Arthur’s fringe to the side. “Who could bring themselves to love a mage, when all we deserve is the fire? Those who do know love for our kind are bewitched, enchanted by Desire demons we harbour. There’s no other reason anyone would stoop so low as to be with us.” 

He laughs, because aside from his fellow mages, he’s never seen anyone look at him as anything more than dirt. Until Arthur, but Arthur’s just human after all, just another templar who was confused by Merlin for a moment, nothing more. Merlin knows that now, but that doesn’t stop the hot and unwanted sting of tears in his eyes that he blinks away. “Forgive me for thinking I deserved even a modicum of clemency, Ser,” Merlin spits. “Forgive me for defiling a warrior of the Order. I am unworthy and I am reviled, I am only an empty vessel that a demon will eventually rise to claim. Nothing more.”

“No,” Arthur cuts in, shaking his head desperately. “Not that. Never believe that. Please.”

Merlin looks at him, and Arthur’s expression is sincere and pleading. “You were at the end of my sword, and I _made_ you do it. I made you...” He looks ill, as if he can’t say it. “In exchange for your life, and I didn’t stop you. Because I wanted to have you. Don’t you see? I’m _despicable._ I’m the one who should ask forgiveness, and I wouldn’t deserve it.”

What a noble fool. He cradles Arthur’s face, drags his thumb down the strong jaw, an image he’s only chased in his dreams before. “You actually believe that.”

Arthur exhales. “Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter, Arthur,” he says, gentling his tone in the way he used to sing lullabies of the Free Marches to Freya and his young apprentice, Mordred, when the winds howled and mages had been slaughtered in the Gallows after a failed escape too many. “Forget this happened. You were overpowered by abominations, I bound you here and made my escape to Sundermount.” Because why lead more templars to his actual destination, Rivaini, or Ferelden? “You almost died, but it was a near thing. Understand?”

“They’d never believe me.”

“You did kill everyone else, that counts for a lot.” He’s seen templars in action but very few as terrifying as Arthur Pendragon in his element. Merlin prays he’ll never have to again, and not with that fury directed at him once Arthur sees sense. “They’ll celebrate you. You have nothing to fear—”

“You idiot!” Arthur says fiercely, interrupting Merlin. “I don’t fear for me. I fear for you.” His fists clench and unclench where they’re bound tight against the rock, knuckles scraping on the surface with sharp metallic shrieks. “There’s no way you’ll survive even if you run. You should’ve just gone back with me, and I could at least plead your case. Make sure you live.  Even if you’re faced with the prospect of Tranquility. If they know you escaped alive, they will chase you down. They will kill you. Merlin, please _._ Listen to me.”

He shakes his head minutely. “As I said, that’s no way to live. No way at all.” Merlin does lean in then to press one last kiss to Arthur’s lips, bitten red from the way he’s worrying them with his teeth. Yanking his staff up, Merlin twirls it around to secure it on his back, hefting his small bag of provisions from where they’d fallen and spilled out onto the sand when Arthur had showed up. 

“It’s nice, actually,” Merlin says finally, with his back to Arthur. “I didn’t know you cared.”

He walks a few more steps before Arthur says, quietly, “More than you know.”

Merlin closes his eyes, clenching one side of his robes. “Too late now.”

“No.”

Turning around, Merlin looks incredulously at him.

“Take me with you,” Arthur says, voice commanding, despite being the one chained to a rock by invisible bonds. “That way, I can protect you.”

Magic has been known to drive people insane, but this is absurd even by its standards, Merlin thinks hysterically as that last sentence sinks in. “What?”

“I said there was no way you could survive alone,” Arthur says, more hints of steel creeping into his words by the second. “But with me, you’d have a fighting chance.”

“I don’t need your protection! _And_ I don’t trust you.” He wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t, the entire terrifying idea is beyond imagining. Down that road lies madness, and why isn’t he walking away from this conversation? 

Arthur looks stung, but he bites down on his lip and continues, “I wronged you. Let me make it right.”

“This is your idea of duty, Ser? Eloping with the fugitive you fucked and running from the law?” Merlin knows his words are acerbic, but he’s already pulling at the magic that holds Arthur there, wrenching them loose with such force that Arthur falls to one knee. It’s a good look on him, but Merlin shoves that thought firmly to the back of his mind.

He just stays there, damn him, looking up at Merlin from beneath his lashes. “No. But protecting my sworn charge is. Accept me and my vows, Merlin, and I will let no harm come to you.”

Merlin believes him. Maker help him, he believes Arthur. Trusts Arthur, who’s offering himself up like this now, who _could_ be instrumental in helping him escape the horrors of Kirkwall, who... also believes in Merlin. 

He doesn’t dare think of what that could mean for them now or in the future, of what could happen.

“Arthur,” Merlin says helplessly, lost.

“I pledge my allegiance to you,” Arthur says, squeezing his eyes shut as he kneels there. “I vow to protect you and keep you safe, and may you strike me down where I stand should I break this oath and take up arms against you.”

Merlin buries his face in a palm, overwhelmed.

“Please,” Arthur says, a whisper that is Merlin’s undoing.

The angry sun sets over the troubled waters beyond Kirkwall just as Merlin extends his hand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up one day hankering for a Merlin/DA fusion with Arthur as a templar and Merlin as a reluctant apostate mage, so... here it is! Huge thanks to my betas and any remaining mistakes are all mine. I'll touch this up again as I go along, it was really fun to work with.
> 
> If there're any fellow Merlin _and_ Dragon Age fans here, please feel free to give me a holler! I love talking about DA with people. c:


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